


Sentiment

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, Incest, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 03:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11660934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fingolfin finds that Finrod’s marred Maedhros irreparably.





	Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for auniverseforgotten’s “Fingolfin/Finrod/Maedhros with number 8 (letters)” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/163120603835/prompt-list-4).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Valinor is much the same now as when Fingolfin first left it, and he’s seen since more than enough desecrated places to appreciate its beauty. Its mountains, its streams, even its grass is rich and beautiful, the air crisp and clear, the flowers unblemished and ever-reaching. Loveliest of all, at least in his opinion, is his brother’s estate—not the towering, oppressive halls of the still-great Fëanor, but the bright, sprawling gardens of Finarfin. Fingolfin is always welcomed straight inside, his horse seen to, even now, when Finarfin’s learned the truth of Fingolfin’s visits. Fingolfin is free to walks the long corridors alone, headed straight for the chambers of Finarfin’s eldest son.

Fingolfin hopes, and half assumes, that Maedhros will already be there—he’s always swift to hurry to his lovers, still hasty, even after all they’ve been through. It’s as if he wants to make up tenfold for the time lost in Mandos’ Halls. Fingolfin understands the sentiment, even if he lets his own steps be guided by patience—they will both still welcome him when he arrives, whenever that might be. 

The doors to Finrod’s rooms, when Fingolfin reaches them, are firmly shut, as they must be when Maedhros visits—he’s as fiery now as he ever was, and deep friendships with both Men and dwarves somewhat changed his sense of propriety, to Fëanor’s perpetual displeasure. Fingolfin’s only found it all the more endearing. He knocks twice against the wood, knowing Finrod will recognize the sound, and then he twists the handled, knowing full well that they might be too busy with one another to answer it for him. 

When he slips inside, he’s half surprised to find them not in the large bed against the farthest wall, but seated primly on the lounge. Maedhros’ legs are set together, his sun-kissed body shirtless, his shoulder turned to Finrod and his arm across Finrod’s lap. Finrod is sideways, hands raised to Maedhros’ left breast. He has a damp cloth held against it, and in that first minute where Fingolfin again closes the door, he realizes that the cloth is stained pink at one end.

Immediately, his pace increases. Even though he’s left the horrors of the East behind, he remembers well the look of _blood_ , the stench of copper and the bitter look on his soldiers’ faces. Maedhros’ is pinched, handsome as ever, not entirely _pained_ , but tense enough for concern to fill every bit of Fingolfin’s being. He flies across the floor until he’s reached them, where he can brush Finrod’s hand aside and see the wound—a swollen, red mass with dark lines interwoven in it—what he assumes, in his quick glance, must be hardened blood. He can’t look any longer, not on Maedhros, one who he’s seen suffer more than enough. And he can’t _stand_ that. He still has fits of anger over it, nights of restless sleep, guilt and worry and pity and a long, deep sorrow for the nephew he’s always loved, the bravest and strongest of them. When he looks at Finrod’s fair face, he’s shocked to find no worry there. 

He asks Finrod tightly, hurriedly, “What has happened?”

“I am sorry,” Finrod answers, donning a little frown that isn’t nearly grave enough. “But Nelyo made me begin. He thought that you might try to stop him—”

With a curse for the stubbornness of Fëanor and his children, Fingolfin swivels back to demand of Maedhros, “What have you done?”

Maedhros winces, perhaps more at his tone than any pain, but tells him, “Please, Uncle, do not be angry. I am not hurt.”

“You are bleeding.”

“It is only a tattoo,” Finrod tells him, pausing once around the word, as though it doesn’t quite _fit_ into their language, and indeed, it flows poorly amidst the others. Finrod shakes his head as though dispelling that, then tries to explain, “At least, that is what the Men call it. I do not know if it came from them or dwarves, but they taught me the art of it. It is a little different for elves, and more so in Valinor with what differing tools and ointments we do and do not have, but the idea is essentially the same. It is that: an _art_ , one more permanent than the paints some put on their face.” He hesitates there, clear eyes ducking from Fingolfin’s, which is telling even before he slowly continues, “It... involves cutting into the skin with ink—”

“You _cut_ him?” Fingolfin repeats hoarsely, filled with new horror. He can’t imagine why _Finrod_ , of all people, the most pleasant, sweet, _kind_ soul he’s ever known would do such a thing. 

Before he can ask, Maedhros jumps in sternly, “I asked him to.” Fingolfin looks at him instead, at the fire behind his intoxicating eyes. It holds Fingolfin’s tongue still while Maedhros lets out a little sigh, softening to add, “I... had hoped you would like it. Please... do not be angry with us. I asked Finrod to do this to me, to give me a mark that _meant_ something. I... am already so... _damaged_...” the word comes out twisted, and Fingolfin wants to protest, because Maedhros has _always_ been beautiful, and his trials did nothing to lessen that, but Maedhros ploughs right over him, “I know what I look like, Uncle—how battered and bruised I am, how disfigured, and how many scars I bear. I just... wanted something _good_ there. If I am to be marred, even after Mandos’ release, then let me at least bear a mark that can recover me from the darkness one look at the others gives me.” He looks at Fingolfin almost pleadingly, the ferocity ebbing away in the hopes of acceptance. 

Fingolfin’s rendered speechless. It still irks him to think of Maedhros coming to _any_ harm. But he thinks, perhaps, he can understand—not fully, personally, but in that way that he understands his nephew, and he’s known for many years of Maedhros’ problems. He’s seen the way Maedhros cringes when passing mirrors, turning instantly away from them. And if this helps...

Finrod lowers the cloth enough for Fingolfin to examine the picture properly. The skin is red, puffy, but not so enflamed as he first thought it, and the blood isn’t copious; it doesn’t flow freely when the rag is gone. There’s a clear, thick substance across it too, some paste Finrod must have applied. And underneath it, Fingolfin can make out the stylized, flowing arches of the letters: F, I, and N. 

“It is for both my lovers,” Maedhros murmurs quietly, “and for my closest friend.” 

“And it is succinct but poignant, I think,” Finrod adds, sighing, “I did not want to carve both our names into you—it would be too long.” When Fingolfin really _looks_ , he can make out the distinctive style of Finrod’s script. It was always particularly pretty, more so than any others in their three houses. Maedhros was right to choose Finrod for it, and perhaps right to wait until Fingolfin could no longer stop him, because, while Fingolfin does come down from his fury, he knows he would still have stopped it if he could. He would heal all of Maedhros’ scars if he could, not add more. 

“This is the most important to me,” Maedhros continues. “The two of you, and in some ways Fingon, even if my love for him is not as this. I already share my blood with my father and brothers, but my flesh I will now share with you. Whatever happens, you have always been _so_ important to me. I want you to remain a part of me.”

Fingolfin is... strangely touched. He isn’t sure how to feel. He wants to reach out and touch the marks, but he doesn’t disturb that tender skin, not yet. Perhaps someday, he’ll be able to brush his fingertips across it, kissing each fine letter. For now, he asks, “Did it hurt?”

Maedhros dons a little smile, telling him genuinely, “Not really. It stung, I suppose, but not much for a warrior, and _nothing_ like the rest of my marks. Finrod took care of me well.”

“I would not have done it if I thought I could not do so with care,” Finrod mutters, dabbing at the letters one last time before folding the cloth. “Nor would I have if I did not think it a request that was right to grant.” 

Fingolfin admits, “It is beautiful, for that. But so is all of Maedhros.”

Maedhros grins, finally wide and proper, enough to dimple his freckled cheeks and reach his glittering eyes. A few copper bangs have fallen across his forehead, one shorn ear poking up beneath it. He has one scar across his nose, another atop one brow, but he’s as handsome as he ever was to Fingolfin. Fingolfin leans down enough to press his lips against Maedhros’, and Maedhros, as always, presses right back into him. 

But Finrod gives Fingolfin a little shove back and insists, “No more. I must bandage it now so it will heal well, and that will require both of you to behave.”

Fingolfin lifts a brow, unused to being ordered around by his nephew. But he concedes that he knows little of this skill and nods, taking a seat on the bench at Maedhros’ other side. Maedhros brings his good hand into Fingolfin’s, intertwines with Fingolfin’s fingers, and waits while Finrod’s bandage is fetched and rolled across his heart.


End file.
